The Wine Glass

Caesar salad. A sliced tomato platter.

Pan-seared chicken breast.

Two place settings.

Two sets of Western cutlery.

One bottle of 2021 Burgundy Volnay village red wine.

Two refined LEHMANN red wine glasses.

At the north and south ends of the dining table

sit two silent diners.

She went to an upscale supermarket earlier that afternoon—City Super—

selecting freshly delivered local chicken breasts and delicate greens, sourced daily.

The cherry tomatoes arrived by air from Italy.

Not the cheap, wrinkled kind people imagine, but a limited varietal grown by small farmers:

skins glossy and unblemished.

When the blade breaks the skin,

the seeds spill out neatly to either side.

Tomato juice flows—so vividly red it looks unreal, almost like blood.

Its sweetness is gentle, persuasive.

One taste is enough to earn loyalty.

The French chicken breast is evenly seared,

its surface golden like southern French sunlight.

Its shape resembles lungs and heart—impossible to look away from.

Yet the people at the table are cold as frost.

Will uses the salad tongs to place lettuce onto his plate,then carefully returns them to the side dish.

A pinch of Egyptian fine salt.

A little vinegar.

He mixes with precision,making sure every leaf carries the proper amount of flavor.

Lindsay, expressionless and professional,removes the foil from the wine bottle.

With the small blade on the corkscrew,she cuts cleanly three centimeters below the lip.

The spiral pierces the cork.

She turns clockwise until only two centimeters remain visible.

She braces the lever.

*Pop.*

The cork releases.

Fresh yet aged aromas rise—fruit, blackcurrant, dark ruby undertones.

She pours a small amount into her glass, swirls gently, inhales, then tastes.

The wine opens in her mouth, mingling with air.

She swallows.

Satisfied.

She fills her glass and places the bottle precisely at the center of the table.

Will lifts a piece of chicken onto his plate.

Three light taps of black pepper.

The pepper shaker returns to the center.

The air tightens.

“You don’t want to try the wine?”—Lindsay is asking

Will looks up at her.

Attention does not exist between them.

He shakes his head and cuts the chicken into pieces, preparing to eat.

Lindsay stands,

lifts the bottle,and pours wine into his glass.

The liquid slides slowly along the curve of the bowl,

filling it halfway.

Will remains silent.

“How long are we going to keep doing this?

She sits on the edge of the table.

Will stares at the last piece of chicken.

Does he even care what he’s eating?

He doesn’t.

As long as he doesn’t have to speak to her,

he would rather eat until he throws up.

“It’s been five days.

You move through this apartment like a zombie.

You don’t answer calls.

You don’t reply to messages.

No eye contact.

Two people. Two bodies.

Can you explain that?”

Only breathing fills the room.

She watches him.

“Hmm?”

Silence continues.

A year ago,they decided to move into this apartment together.

They met at a wine tasting.

Will loved Burgundy reds.

Lindsay was a wine sales representative.

They exchanged contact information.

A week later,they went on their first date.

Lindsay drinks her wine.

It gives her no pleasure—only the hope of numbness.

She pours another glass.

Will stands up,preparing to leave the scene.

He has no appetite left—only nausea.

Lindsay watches his back and downs the second glass in one swallow.

Alcohol mixes with suppression.

Anger begins to ferment.

She crushes the wine glass in her hand.

A sharp crack

tears through the silence.

Shards scatter across the floor like her shattered heart.

She picks up the stem.

Blood runs freely from her palm.

She lunges toward Will and drives the stem into his left arm.

Pain explodes.

What are you doing?

Will scrambles for the first-aid kit.

For his phone.

Trying to stop the bleeding.

Trying to call an ambulance.

“You forced me.”

Her voice breaks.

“Isn’t this us?

A perfect wine glass, shattered in an instant.

Everything we had—we destroyed it with our own hands.”

She looks down at the shards.

As Will presses a napkin to his wound, dialing 911—

She strikes again.

The stem pierces his right hand.

“Are you fucking insane?

Pain surges.

His vision blurs.

“Your silence caused all of this,” she screams.

“Your cold eyes suffocated me.

Your silence lit the fuse.”

He tries to escape.

Blood loss disorients him.

He stumbles toward the dining area and steps on the remaining glass.

Pain erupts.

Blood spreads across the floor.

He realizes—

his phone is still behind.

He limps back.

The apartment is small.

Too small

for someone to disappear.

Then she appears behind him.

Her hands are soaked in blood.

She grips the glass stem.

“You dragged me into your life with ‘I love you.’

And you pushed me into hell with the same words.”

She steps closer.

“Love and not loving

differ by only one word.”

She presses the final

4.5 centimeters of glass

into the back of his heart.

Night remains beautiful.

Apartments glow with light.

Someone celebrates a finished project.

Someone shares a supermarket discount.

Someone watches Netflix on the sofa.

And someone lies forever

in a pool of blood.

On the table, one lonely wine glass remains—

filled with red wine, motionless.

It witnesses

the end of a chapter of life.

Three Years Later

Same city.

Same sky.

Same language.

Lindsay is no longer who she was.

In a women’s prison in Utah,

two inmates share one cell.

Every night,

she relives that evening.

The wine they loved.

The tasting notes they shared.

The Burgundy glasses they once raised together, smiling.

Now, those memories have led her

into freedom

without freedom.